


Muddle Through Somehow

by laceandgrace (thingsarequeer)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Holidays, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:24:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsarequeer/pseuds/laceandgrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hands hover uncertainly around his waist, afraid to touch (or keep). It’s almost like he knows that at any moment, Sam will realize what’s happening and pull away. <i>Can’t do this. Not now. Not going to put you deeper into hell where I can’t come after you</i>, he’s used to saying. Except now he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muddle Through Somehow

**Author's Note:**

> A follow-up to 3x08. Mucho angst.

The game ended over an hour ago. Now, all they can find by flipping through the limited stations on the old television are ancient Christmas specials that used to scare Sam as a kid and late-night infomercials trying to sell them something. Dean settles on a station that’s playing _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ , smiling secretly against the rim of his plastic cup filled with eggnog. 

Somewhere in the alcohol-induced haze that’s clouded Sam’s mind, he knows that Dean chose the station particularly because the Bumble used to scare him into submission. (Much to his distress, Sam had found out not long after that Yeti did, in fact, exist in the more remote regions of the North. He’d had a steady diet of bad dreams that winter.) But he’s too drunk to care about whether or not Dean might or might not be taunting him. 

He’s too flushed and warm from the alcohol in his blood. His skin feels too stretched from the mass of emotional turmoil that seems to be drawing him out too far for comfort. The couch feels too large, and he feels too small. Everything is so much richer and more intense now that he’s come to the realization that all of these feelings and emotions he’s been experiencing lately have a word to match them. A word that he’s not really sure either of them is ready to hear falling from his lips just yet. 

But he can’t help the tense feeling of incompleteness that is still burning through his veins. It started with switching topics, with asking if his older brother wanted to watch the game. The perfect distraction, the flawless excuse that he let Dean take without questions or hesitancy. _Absolutely_ , he’d said, leaning back into the sofa and fighting to keep the self-conscious smiles from his face when he caught Sam watching him. 

And that’s the problem, right there. Sam can’t stop watching him. He’ll never be able to stop watching Dean, because that’s what he’s done his whole life. And yeah, a part of him does it because Dean’s his older brother. Younger brothers are supposed to idolize their older siblings, even if it’s only in the depths of their soul between the shadows and the pitch black. But when he watches – _really watches_ – Dean, it’s a whole hell of a lot more than just wanting to mimic the one person in his life that he considers to be worthy of a place as a role model in his life. It’s a whole hell of a lot more than it’s ever been with anyone else. 

Even Jess. And that scares the shit out of Sam. 

He can feel them. The stinging, maudlin tears burning at the inside corners of his eyes and he wants desperately to shove them away with the back of his hand. But at the same time, at least he’s feeling something. He’s so distinctly tired of having to pretend he’s emotionally numb to all of this. To Dean’s impending date with hell. To his own _want_ and _thick desire_ and _please, I need this_. To everything that this year has entailed so far. 

The alcohol addles him. Makes him forget that tonight is for Dean and what he wants. Throws away all thoughts that he might or might not have had about saving his older brother from as much of hell as he could by denying them both what their blood practically screams at them to be _so right_. He can feel it pulsing too loud in his ears, begging him to just look, look, _look_. 

And want. Oh god, he _wants_ too much already. 

“Sammy?” He can feel Dean’s calluses through the material of his shirt at his shoulder. Feels the rough press of palms worn away at an age too young from guns and scars and everything they shouldn’t be. Feels the savage, biting heat soaking into that intimately small place. “Sammy, you alright?” 

Of course, he sees it all. His older brother knows everything. It’s a simple fact of the universe. Grass is green (except when it gets too dry). The sky is blue (except when the clouds come to call). Big brothers know everything (except when no one knows _anything_ ). More importantly, _Dean_ Okay. Okay, yeah. 

“Sammy…Sammy, hold on,” Dean murmurs, one hand digging itself into the curls on the back of his neck and the other clutching half-heartedly at the material of his shirt. He’s not pulling Sam in. But he’s not pushing him away either, and Sam gives into desperation. Gives into everything that the rest of him is crying and screaming for. 

Dean tastes like eggnog. It was stupid really, for him to have thought it might be otherwise. He furrows his eyebrows and licks the taste away, giving in with vigor when Dean lets out a small, gasping sound in the back of his throat. Sam’s breathing hitches, and he finds it. Finds the taste that renews his memories of touching before they acknowledged the impact of the deal. It’s heaven, and it’s Dean, and he wants more of it. Traces his brother’s lips with licks and nips until he’s groaning in frustration and doing his best to seek out firmer contact between their mouths. 

Hands hover uncertainly around his waist, afraid to touch (or keep). It’s almost like he knows that at any moment, Sam will realize what’s happening and pull away. _Can’t do this. Not now. Not going to put you deeper into hell where I can’t come after you_ , he’s used to saying. Except now he knows. 

Knows that no level of hell is too deep for him to follow after. Even sinning is a joint project in their lives now, and Sam will be damned if Dean’s going to take the blame for the distortion that is theirs to claim ownership over. But can anyone call it distortion? Can anyone call something like this sin? 

_God won’t give you anything you can’t handle_ , a preacher had once told him. And that’s good. His talent for denying himself is to no avail when matched with the green of Dean’s eyes. 

But he can’t choke it out. Sam can’t say it, even now. _I love you. I love you. I love you_. It ripples on the edge of his mind and thrums in his blood. So he bites it into the skin of Dean’s throat. Licks and soothes it until it smoothes over and he can begin again. Works it through Dean’s body with each aching cant of the hips until he can’t do anything but arch his head back and cry out each time his limbs start shaking again. It moves through them. Hot, sweet, and fierce. A force that keeps them hurting until the dawn’s light.

Outside, the snow falls to an eloquent silence.


End file.
